


Hibiscus

by seafaringheart



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: F/F, Florist AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-06-09 19:50:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6920656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seafaringheart/pseuds/seafaringheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was the story of Beca Mitchell. Wannabe music producer. Unwilling, part time florist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hibiscus

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is just a heads up to say that I am not dead. I know I'm supposed to be working on Spark, and I do have part of a chapter done, but I got utterly swallowed by school and real life. This is probably going to be a two-shot fic, so it's lil florist AU. Feel free to follow me @seawritten on tumblr, which is my new writing blog, or @ofsaltandseas, which is my main!
> 
> Either way, I hope you enjoy this drabble!

This was the story of Beca Mitchell.  
Wannabe music producer.  
Unwilling, part time florist.

Her father hailed it as a sort of ‘bonding experience’ -- a way for Beca to bridge the gaps that she had made when her parents divorced and her dad remarried. But, if you had asked her, the DJ would have said that she was  _fine_ with the bridges she had made and _fine_ with the fact that she kept both her stepmother and him at arm’s length since her senior year. A flower shop and a three month summer break was not going to change her mind or ease her sense of betrayal, especially with her father stressing her attendance to Barden instead of her dreams of moving to LA.

But the man was ever persistent, and his constant pressure of the part time job and one year’s attendance ( _just one year, Beca!_ ) at college eventually had her relent; if only for the fact he was offering to pay for the entire move if she hated it.

Her stepmother’s shop was located in one of those open-aired arcades; a dying breed against the ever-creeping malls that erected themselves either side of the street, and the shops beside her own held dusty windows and large, red _‘For Sale’_ signs printed on white cardboard. It was inevitable that the arcade would be swallowed by the change but, when asked about it, Sheila began to prattle that her flowers _needed to breathe_ and _feel the sun_ and, **holy shit,** Beca thought,they were just _flowers_ \-- why was she talking about them like they were her _ **children?**_

The shop was nice enough -- boasting a sort of vintage, rustic look with its weatherboard paneling and rows of potted plants. Each morning Shelia would wander out to arrange the realistic plastic into weaving bouquets of pastels and white and, each morning, she accepted the boxes of freshly cut flowers from the grower who arrived two hours before opening.

Then, at ten am, Beca would arrive to the shop with headphones mashed to the top of messy brown hair, plaid shirts and dark pants to contrast the delicate beauty of the shop. At ten am she worked the shop for the next few hours; taking orders, selling flowers and making random arrangements out of the flowers Shelia left behind. As much as she griped and grumbled about the job, it had its perks. A steady income was one; not to mention she was able to put on her music while she worked -- and her remixes were commonly commented on by regulars and new customers alike.

 _She_ came on the second of July, where white and blue chrysanthemums were strung about the shop like Christmas lights, and posies of brilliant roses lined the tables and held up the buntings laid across its surface. Beca had been working at the back, stringing together a seemingly never ending palette of patriotic hues until a loud crash signaled her arrival, accompanied by one’s attempt to muffle their swearing.

A cock of her brow had Beca wipe her hands upon her apron as she made her way outside, spotting... **_jesus fuck_** \-- how many flowers _were_ in that bouquet? There had to be over a dozen roses, and the poor woman clutching them looked liable to run into the table before her intervention. Both finding the situation hilarious and alarming, Beca seemed torn between laughter and concern -- but settled on the last as to be a good assistant for her stepmother. She approached slowly, as if fully prepared to have this girl yell at her for whatever fault she had with her order.

“Hey, um...Can I help you?”

 _“Hi there!”_ The chipperness of the voice caught her off guard, as did the way the flowers were thrust forward with peppiness of the other’s tone. “Listen, this is really embarrassing, but I -- can I put these down somewhere?”

“Uh... sure?” Awkwardly directing the mass of green and red towards the counter top, the voice was able to pop the posy down upon the wood, and Beca was finally able to see the girl’s face. She looked about her age -- maybe a year or two older -- with her face the colour of her hair and her eyes a light blue. Relieved at the mass no longer cradled in her arms, she began to lunge into an explanation while the DJ just... stared.

“I’m really not sure if this is the _right_ place to go, or even if you can help, but the card on the roses said this shop and I got _so lost_ trying to come here -- you wouldn’t believe it. My boyfriend, Tom -- okay, well, he’s not my boyfriend **_now_** ; we broke up last week... _anyway_ , my ex-boyfriend bought me these roses, and they’re beautiful, but now it’s **super** awkward because I don’t feel for him the way he does for me. I’d show you the letter, but that’s not really the point...”

Beca wasn’t normally one to get flustered in front of people, as she thought herself the master of one line responses and escaping conversation way before it got to this point. She looked more like a deer than a girl; caught in the radiance of the other as she ranted and raved --

“So, do you think you can help?”

 ** _Shit._ ** Blinking twice like a fucking _moron,_ Beca tried to catch on to the rest of her conversation as the other waited expectantly.

“Err--”

“I ranted a bit, didn’t I?” Despite the fact she had probably every right to berate Beca for her absent mindedness, the ginger beamed in an expression that only made the other more confused. “I was just wondering if I could sell them back to you... or maybe return them? I understand if you can’t, I just... I don’t want them in my house --”

“They’re _flowers,_ dude.” The words fell out of Beca’s mouth, unintentional and stilted from the sheer ridiculousness that was this red-head in her shop. Her hands found their way to the pockets of her apron, beginning to fiddle with the fabric as she realised just how Beca-like her response was. “Look, I mean, once the order’s done and the flowers are sent, there’s not a lot we can do unless there’s a problem. You could give them away or something if you wanted, but --”

“Do you think I can give them to you?” Whereas the ginger looked somewhat dejected at Beca’s initial response, her face lit up the moment the idea was suggested and she began to wave her hands over the top of the roses. “You could give them away as advertising, or something. Or, If you have a significant other, you could always give those to them.”

“I don’t--” Beca began to interject, followed by a long pause as she tried to find her words. _Get it together, Mitchell!_ Her hands dipped under the other woman’s, careful not to touch her skin as she did, and she scooped up the ginormous bunch of flowers.

“I’ll put them out the back for you. You’re sure you don’t want them?”

“ _Yes_. I’m a thousand percent sure -- thank you **so** much. You’re a lifesaver.” As Beca turned and awkwardly fiddled with the latch to put the flowers near her work station, the other’s voice still called from the front of the shop.

“I didn’t get your name! A damsel has to know her hero, after all!”

 _Jesus._ Beca rolled her eyes, though it didn’t have quite the same malice as it might have for anyone else. With her back still turned to the other and her fingers fiddling for her scissors to cut away the paper, she spoke briefly.

“Beca.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Beca! I’m Chloe.”

While Beca didn’t say anything in reply, her eyes glanced to the leftover pile of flowers, where a small array of delicate hibiscuses lay strewn across orange paper from a ‘tropical’ wedding. While it was possible that something could be done with them, it was more likely that Sheila would end up putting the petals to compost from not being sold. Plucking a yellow one from the mass, and leaving the roses for when she left, the DJ moved back out to where Chloe stood, holding out the single bloom.

“Here.”

Chloe looked surprised at the sight, though her expression turned into something just a little too wicked to be playful innocence.

“Are you flirting with me, Beca?”

 _“What?”_ That incredulous expression soon returned on the brunette’s face, and she began to draw the flower back towards her. “Jesus, I just thought since you had a break up and everything --”

Chloe beamed and plucked the flower from the other’s hand, her smile drawn from ear to ear despite the way Beca floundered. Pulling back her hair, she pushed the hibiscus behind her ear and draped the dark locks over the top.

“Thank you,” she said cheerily. “I’ll treasure it. _**But --!**_   You have to take one of the roses home with you. It’s kind of an equal exchange thing.” Making some vague gesture with her hands, Chloe watched as Beca hesitated, and managed to cut in before an excuse could be made.

“C’mon, you have to promise me. It’s _just a flower_ , right?” Right. It wasn’t like Beca was struggling to say anything -- nor that her face had gone close to beet red, despite her better intent. Beca didn’t get embarrassed; she never struggled in front of people or went red in the face. In fact, it would have been far easier for her just to say no and let it be the end of their strange, but otherwise cordial conversation. But, with a groan, she relented.

“Fine. I promise.” Before she could let that be the end, Chloe stuck her pinkie finger out in front of her.  
  
“Pinkie swear.”  
  
“You’re kidding, right?”  
  
“Nope! And you have to put it in your hair.”  
  
**_“Chloe.”_**

But the red-head began to wave her finger right in front of Beca’s face and the DJ, while holding an expression that could kill, eventually lifted her own hand and entwined it with the other’s own. Chloe looked beyond pleased.

“Alright! Well, I should let you get back to work.” Walking backwards towards the front door, Chloe paused only when her back was to the glass and she pointed to Beca as she had begun her retreat back to her workstation.  
  
“The flower!"

“I know!”

As Chloe pulled open the door, Beca pulled out her florist knife and cut away the stem of one of the roses from the pile that Chloe had given back. Pushing into her own hair, she turned and pointed upwards to its placement, which was promptly returned with a thumbs up by the other woman.  
  
“I’ll see you around, Beca!” She called, pulling open the door and shutting it behind her.

This was the story of Beca Mitchell.  
Wannabe music producer.  
~~Un~~ _Somewhat_ willing, part time florist.

And she wore that flower in her hair the rest of the day, until such time as her stepmother returned and she able to go home.


	2. daffodil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beca's awkward. Chloe is a ray of sunshine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is UP everyone? This chapter took way too long to write and I'm pretty sure it has so many errors! That's what you get for doing it at four am -- whoops. Anyway, thank you so much for your support! I'm hoping to get the next one out quicker, but that honestly depends on school ( I'm a law student rip ). But I am free next month!

It was a week and a half before Beca saw Chloe again. Enough time that the DJ had convinced herself that her _“I’ll see you around!”_ was a show of politeness, and that her job over the next few months would continue without any more random interruptions from redhead girls with over-sized bouquets.

Strangely, her stepmother didn’t even seem phased when she returned to the shop -- and the sight of the roses and the flower in Beca’s hair was received with a quirked brow and a want for explanation. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances surrounding the purchase and return, the flowers could not be sold again, but Shelia decided to take them home and distribute them throughout the house. However, this meant that that every time Beca turned around there was a splash of red to _remind_ her of Chloe and _remind_ her of that particular day; to the point she was almost celebratory when they died. It meant that she finally could get the strange woman’s face out of her head without constantly being pulled back to that time in the shop. Constantly finding a reason to think upon an almost stranger was annoying and, frankly, really, _really_ **creepy.**

Patriotic hues had been exchanged for warm yellows and brilliant oranges, transforming the shop into a second sun whose boldness was in colour only. While patrons passed by waving fans, flyers and other momentary-made cooling devices, Beca stayed inside with her music blaring and the gentle mist made from a water bottle she sprayed to keep the flowers hydrated. It was idle work, but escaping the summer’s heat was more than enough for her to submit to the shop’s maintenance.

 _‘You know LA would be hotter?’_ came her father’s gentle push -- one that had been received at the time by a roll of the DJ’s eyes as she carried the florist boxes towards her beat up truck.  


_‘Yeah, Dad, I know. But it’s not like a music producer needs to go outside.’_  It wasn’t like Beca went out into the sun _**normally**_. She was more content to sit inside with her laptop making remixes and following music trends through meticulous google searches.  


What did he expect she’d do -- lay on the beach all day? Her skin would peel before it tanned.

“Beca -- _hey!_ Beca!”  


“Holy shit --” Brandishing the water bottle like it was some kind of weapon, the DJ spun on her heels to point it at the red-headed woman who threw her hands up. Loosening her cry of surprise into a slow hiss, she tried to regain herself whilst the other’s expression shifted into something wickedly sheepish.  


“ _Jesus,_ Chloe, are you trying to give me a heart attack?”  


“No, but --” it was obvious she was trying to hold in her laughter. “Do you wanna put down the gun, partner?”

Beca’s eyes shifted from Chloe’s and to the squirt bottle in her hand, and she slammed it just a little _too_ hard as she stepped back from the flowers and towards the counter. She didn’t want her to see that she was **embarrassed.**

“What are you doing --” There was a short pause. God, Shelia would _kill_ her if she saw her talking to a potential customer like that. “What can I do for you today?”  


“I was hoping you could help me with a problem!” Chloe replied, not even missing a beat as she all but skipped up to the counter. Placing her hands upon the lacquered wood, she leaned in and began to whisper to Beca like she was trading secrets instead of a problem. “My Nana’s birthday is on the weekend. She’s turning ninety five, my entire family is going to be there, you get the drill. I’ve been deliberating _all_ week on what to get her. Then I thought about how helpful you were, so I thought getting her a bouquet might brighten up her room.”  


“--Sure.” What else was she supposed to say to that? Gesturing vaguely to the various arrangements displayed on pale oak, Beca tried to guide her eye to the various designs her stepmother had made. “There’s anything there... but probably not that section unless you want to proclaim your undying love to your nana. You’d probably want something yellow.”  


“Yellow?”  


“Shelia says it’s generally a colour for joy and it’s symbolic...” Beca shrugged. “I guess it depends on if she’s sentimental.”  


“No, no. Yellow is good,” Chloe nodded, casting strands of red hair over her face that she pushed back with her hand,“Are these all the one’s your boss made?”  


“Yeah.”  


“Do you think you could make me one?”

Beca froze.

“Make what?”  


“A bouquet. Can you? I saw the ones in the back the first day we met. I liked those. Could you make something similar?”  


“Dude, I just deal with the leftovers --” Shelia dealt with the orders -- not to mention there was a five percent markup for anything specific. Beca didn’t even know how to source the flowers; let alone if the specific ones Chloe might ask for were in season. “I mean, I guess, but --”

But, before she could even finish, Chloe had given a little squeal and an excited clap of her hands, causing Beca to scrunch her nose at the sight. She had to admit it was a little adorable -- even if her stepmonster was liable to **murder** her for doing her own order. “I knew I could count on you!” She replied, looking as if though she were about to lunge over the counter and hug Beca before noticing her expression. The extended hands moved to affectionately rub her arms instead. It totally counted.

“With your advice, I’d love something yellow. Can you have it ready by Saturday morning?” She asked. Beca nodded, trying to wrack her brain for anything yellow that could be done by Friday night.  


“Maybe something with sunflowers?”  


“Ooh! Becs, you’re so on point. Sunflowers would be _amazing_.”

Becs? Beca thought about correcting her, but she doubted Chloe would listen for very long. Instead she reached over the counter and procured a faux-leather book, using the ribbon tucked between the pages as a cue for the correct date and grabbed a pen from the metal tin. It was one of those awkward ones with a huge, plastic flower at the top. Shelia really liked to go overboard.

“Just put your details in there,” she instructed, handing the pen over to Chloe. “The bouquet will be about forty to fifty dollars. I’ll have to ask Shelia about pricing, but if that’s alright with you --”  


“That’s perfect!”  


“--Just bring fifty to be safe.”

Chloe jotted down her full name in sweeping loops and printed her number in the space beside. She was very particular in highlighting ‘from Beca!’ in the book and added a little heart before laying the pen next to her work and looking up to the other with a smile.

“Do you want to go with me?” Came her sudden request, causing Beca’s eyes to narrow in the middle of double checking her details. She looked up.  


“To your grandmother’s birthday? Chloe, that would be weird.”  


“No it wouldn’t!” She countered, reaching out to grasp Beca’s wrist. “I was supposed to bring a date -- _I’m not saying it’s a date_ \-- but I’m obviously **not** taking Tom, which really puts me in a pickle as to who I could bring --”

“A pickle?” Beca interrupted, having stopped long enough from trying to ease her hand away that she was able to smirk. Chloe huffed.  


“This is important. I can’t go alone.”  


“So you’ll just pick up women you don’t know from florist shops?” Beca asked.  


“I said it wasn’t a date, but if you want to make it that way...” Chloe trailed off in a sort of sing-song voice, causing Beca to flush involuntarily and rip her hand from her grip. She laughed. “Hey, it’s your fault. So, how about it? Can you get some time off work?”  


_Could she?_ Beca had be begging for time off since she got roped into this job, and both her dad and Shelia said that she could if she had somewhere to be. Like hanging out with friends or going on a date. But Beca didn’t have friends -- let alone a significant other -- and her points of interaction were customers and faceless users on youtube and other, more anonymous forms of social media. It never bothered her. She told herself time and time again she was content with loneliness.

But, theoretically, a ninety-five-year-old’s birthday party could not go for very long. If she went to it, spent some time with Chloe, she could probably get home quicker than a shift at the shop and finish the mixtape she wanted. It was a terrible means to an end, but she’d take it.

“Fine.” There was another round of excited clapping, and Chloe’s beam was brilliant and white as her excitement overtook her.  


“You are the best! I have to run, but you have my number and the party is at ten am. I can’t wait to see you!”  


“Y-Yeah,” Beca stammered, taken aback by the sheer force of Chloe’s cheer. It didn’t help when her wrist was seized again, pulled, and she found herself the awkward reciprocant of a huge, one armed hug and a kiss to the cheek.  


“You are seriously the best.”

With that, Chloe turned and made her way towards the door -- taking her sunny personality out with her. The world just seemed a little darker for it. Beca took a good few moments to regain herself, wondering just what had happened in the time between spraying the flowers and talking Chloe. Without even thinking about it, she had been lured into making her own bouquet, something she never did, and go out on the weekend -- something _else_ she never did.

Looking down at the bulbous pen and the flowing script, Beca’s eyes trailed to the number as she felt her face grow hot. If it was one thing Chloe had succeeded it, it was managed to not-so discreetly give her that.

What was with this girl and breaking down her walls so _easily?_

\--------

“Hey Dad --” It wasn’t often that Beca asked her father for anything, so his surprise was both genuine and almost a little sad. Twisting around on the swivel chair he had facing his computer monitor, the fifty-year-old professor smiled at her as he placed his hands in his lap, the lines on his face softened considerably as he did.  


“What can I do for you, Becs?”  


“Yeah, uh -- this isn’t what you think this is -- but do you think Shelia would give me some time off on Saturday? I’m going out with a... _friend_.”  


That’s what she and Chloe were, right? Friends? Friends went out to other friend’s grandmother's birthday parties, right? Totally.

“This isn’t some sixty year old man you met on Spot-dora-fm...?” He asked, bundling all the music sites together with a narrowed brow and a suspicious expression. Beca groaned.  


“No, Dad. Her name is Chloe. I met her at the shop and I’m... doing a boquete up for her grandmother’s birthday,” she explained, “She asked if I wanted to go.”  


Dr. Mitchell held the suspicious expression for a few seconds longer -- which was both to be expected and a little insulting -- before that smile returned and he rolled his shoulders. “I don’t see why not, kiddo. Shelia and I always said you could have a day off if you were going out with friends. Does she know you’re making her arrangement?”

“Shelia?” He nodded. “No. It’s in the book, though, and I figured you could tell her. I did up the cost this afternoon and I told Chloe beforehand --”

“You should try to talk to her more, honey,” her dad interrupted. “Shelia wants to get to know you. She really appreciates the fact you work for her and that you do such a great job --”  


“I’m sure she does, buuuuut I have to get to bed.” If it was one thing Beca didn’t cope with well, it was human affection. Especially human affection from a woman trying to encroach on the remains of her parents marriage and try to scoot her way into becoming Beca’s mother. Taking three steps back and waving her hands like a matador in front of a bull, she was quick to leave him with only the bare-boned details.  


\--------

Beca didn’t want to admit it took her almost a half an hour to text Chloe.

Nor did she want to admit that half the time was torn between what name she should add for her in her phone and how to structure the initial text.

Human interaction was hard.

Eventually Beca settled on the word ‘Weirdo’ with a little alien symbol on the side, as she figured Chloe would think it was endearing and not... strange. It was probably strange, but she was the one who asked her out.

But it wasn’t a date.

Friends asked each other out... right? She was going out. A birthday party was out.

She was overthinking this.

 _Hey!_ Beca begun her initial text, wincing at the little exclamation mark on the end of the word. “No, that seems to... cheery.”

 _Hi._ “That’s worse.”

 _Hey Weirdo._ “I have weirdo in the phone, so if she does look...?” 

Shrugging in her bed and propping up the pillows high behind her shoulders, Beca wiggled in and began to type. ‘Hey Weirdo. This is Beca from the flower shop.’ _She would know you’re from the flower shop, you **idiot.**_

_‘Hey Weirdo. It’s Beca. Here is my number so you can text me. I’m good for the weekend.’  
_

That was about as good as she was going to get. She hit send.

Placing the phone on her chest as she laid in the dark, Beca waited for the text back while her heart beat loudly against her ribcage. She had to admit that texting Chloe was nerve wracking, though she put that down to the fact she couldn’t hold herself up to be an ambassador of communication. But, even then, text to text was where she excelled. She didn’t have to look at the person. They didn’t see the way they rolled her eyes or mouthed their responses in an indignant manner. Not only was she able to come up with witty comebacks within a good three to twenty four hours, she had the added advantage of constant anonymity. This was completely out of her range. This was positive, unsarcastic communication with a living, breathing person. No wonder she didn’t do this often.

Yelping the moment her phone buzzed to life, Beca had to hold back the involuntary reaction to peg it as the little envelope symbol filled the screen. As it bathed her room full of posters and plaited button shirts, she swiped the glass to behold the equally cheery message. How was one girl filled with so much cheer?

_‘omg beca hi!!! i’m so so SO glad you can come on the weekend! I already told my Nana. She’s so excited to meet you!!!’_

“...Great,” Beca replied, feigning a joy that was easy seen through. Luckily Chloe wasn’t able to hear.  


_‘I just hope her bouquet lives up to expectations. :P’_  



End file.
